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Love Will Tear You Apart
I’m lost. I know this. I knew it as soon as she walked in the door. I knew it as soon as she approached me with that hair the color of deep space, those eyes like embers, those lips blood-red and smirking with silent secrets, and that body that promised to extract mistake after glorious mistake from me. Her name was something ridiculous and fake, something like Raven Knight. She was playing a role but every single person in that room, regardless of gender, wanted to play her counterpart. For some reason, she chose me. I thought I was lucky. I don’t think I knew what luck meant. I still have the scars on my back from that first night together. Her fingers were like claws, tearing through my skin as I thrust into her. She moaned and howled into my ear and it spurred me on. When she released and clamped down on me, I blacked out. I thought it was the best sex possible. It was just a stress test. We have never taken even a step toward our intimacy being ‘gentle’. Chains and restraints and gags and wax and knives and choking…it’s been a buffet of dark delights and I’ve been here for it because, I mean, come on. If you get unrestricted access to Fort Knox, you have to try to get away with some gold, right? Otherwise, what are you even doing there? So, I’ve been game, even if it’s verged on a bit intense for my usual tastes. Recently, though, we’ve pushed past kinky into something more concerning. More frightening, if I’m being honest. She’s insisted on certain locations, places way out in the country, far away from prying eyes. She says it’s because she wants to scream as loud as she likes without people calling the police and, while that sounds flattering, she’s not said it with a cheeky smile. It's been downright serious. She’s also drawn blood. A lot of blood. I’d understand if, in the course of a frenzied session, an errant fingernail or tooth frees a bit of the claret, but the cuts I’ve experienced seem intentional. The wounds – yes, wounds, not just injuries – have been piling up and I’m finding it harder to not only get in and out of bed but to be ready to engage within the bed. Or what used to be the bed. Now it’s just a stone slab with candles around. I think she’s taking it a bit far with the gimmick. Here’s the part where I feel lost. She wants to bring someone else in which, normally, I would be all for except for the fact that she calls this man her ‘master’. She says he’s been with her since ‘the beginning’, which gives the whole thing a weird incestuous feeling. She wants us to meet, though. Says that he’s royalty in his homeland. A count or something. Who knows? Here’s my question: do you think it’s worth it? I still kinda do.
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Temple of Love
Are you lost? Unsure of your life? Bored with the grind, the rat race, the mundane? Are you looking for something different to make your life feel meaningful again? The Acacia Bay Church of the Ascended Lover has the answers! At ABCAL, you will find an atmosphere unlike any other holy site you can imagine. We don’t have hard, wooden pews – we have cushions, beds, and anything else you might find comfortable. We don’t have hymns or sermons – we have conversation and flirting. We don’t require suits, dresses, or your ‘Sunday Best’. Instead, we’re not only clothing optional, we’re clothing discouraged! Other places of worship demand constant attendance and donation of money. At ABCAL, we understand that life gets in the way and routines you don’t want to follow. Instead, we believe that every person has their own schedule and own ability to provide for their community. To ask for you to ignore those would be cruel. What we instead ask for donation-wise is not financial, but physical – your presence! In return, you are provided with a place to relax. To rest your body and your mind. To set aside the trappings and requirements of your daily life and of society as a whole. At ABCAL, we believe that every human is the captain of their own ship and being tied down legally and morally to one person is not the way to control your life. Rather, we believe that love should be shared, given freely to whomever wishes to indulge. When you visit ABCAL, you will be provided with your own personal usher who will serve every one of your needs. Your desires. They are trained and certified in all forms of therapy and healing and are licensed by [$%^&*(] to perform whatever acts they feel you need. Is there something your husband or wife simply won’t do for you, something you believe would soothe your heart and improve the quality of your life? All you need do is ask and our trained sucins – an old Aramaic term for servant! – will provide. If you are in considerable distress, ABCAL even offers a comprehensive seven-step process in which we pinpoint your specific physical needs and fulfill them. The process is intense and intensive, yet all those who have gone through it can and will attest to feeling lighter, as if they have let go of something they were holding on to. Something they were not using. Something they will not miss. At The Acacia Bay Church of the Ascended Lover, we truly believe that the best service is servicing and being serviced by others. We are dedicated to taking from you that which you no longer need while providing you the physical and emotional release you do. With our beautiful staff, comfortable location, and desire to meet whatever needs you may think of, there is no better place on Earth to free yourself from the life you think you have. Take it from us – you will never want to leave! Whatever Doesn’t Kill Me (Better Run)
It’s said the most dangerous animal is one that has been wounded and no longer is able to flee. I can confirm that is an accurate statement. I’m hiding in an abandoned factory after escaping from the Rock Island Terror and I am through running. Two weeks. Two weeks I spent being handcuffed to that rusty bed frame being cut and burned and touched in ways only something from my past repressed memories would dare. But rust as an aesthetic choice is stupid. Sure, it may look cool and creepy, but it also makes structural integrity unstable at best. That’s how I escaped. I forced the frame to bend and snap and now I’m here. I’m half-dressed like some horror movie victim. I’m covered in dried blood, mostly mine. I hurt all over. And I am very pissed off. By now, he knows I’ve gotten loose. He must be panicking, just a little bit, because his plan has gone awry. Everyone knows his MO: take, torture for two weeks, kill, dump the body near the shoreline, repeat. I was probably twelve hours away from Step 3 and now he’s at a loss. He’s coming. I know that for sure. He’s not going to just chalk this one up as an L and try again. He has to find me and end me. Not just because I know who he is, but because it’s part of his ritual. Can’t throw that off, you know? So, he’s coming. He’ll check this factory first, I imagine. It’s the nearest sign of civilization to his cabin and he’ll assume – correctly – that I will need to rest and collect my thoughts. He’ll enter via one of the side doors - the side door on the west of the building actually because all the other doors have been ‘damaged’. The handles have been snapped off by ‘someone’. He’s being directed to where I want him. He’s not the only one who can hunt, you know. So, he’ll enter the west door quietly, like a mouse sneaking through a church. He will enter and see rows upon rows of old shelves. He’ll take a right because his left will be blocked by tall boxes. He will go to the end of the row and stop because he will see ‘me’ crumpled in a heap. He will not think it’s a trap because he thinks he’s too smart for that. He will draw his knife and creep slowly toward the heap of me. He will raise the knife high and plunge it into the pile of trash bags I set up. And then I will lower the noose I have made from old chains and rusty nails. I will get it around his neck and then I will hold on to the loose end as I jump off the top shelf. It will hurt me, hitting the floor like that. It will do more than hurt him. There’s the door. I’m in position. Lord, I hope this works. A Song 4 Hate and Devotion
“I love you, I hate you, you know I’d do anything for you…” Dennison sighed quietly. He was watching this new ‘talent’ – a very generous term – perform what he was calling Baby’s First Punk Song. He was sure they thought it was profound, but it was about as deep as a stream of piss. Mercifully, the song ended quickly. “Thank you!” the lead singer yelled into the mic, “We are Yogurt Thick! How was that, Mr. Dennison? Did we blow you away or what?” Of course he asked. Dennison forced a fake smile onto his face. “Great. It was great, guys. Truly. I’ll need to run it by the folks at the studio and get back in touch with you as soon as possible, alright?” “That means he hated it,” the bassist, a sullen man with long dark hair, said quietly. “Does not! Shut up, Linus!” the lead singer screeched at him, “What, we should have done your song instead? That confusing piece of shit?” “What was his song?” Dennison asked despite himself. “It’s nothing. Some boring crap. It’s not at all our aesthetic.” “I’d like to hear it,” Dennison said, not mentioning that anything not the aesthetic he just heard would be a positive. “Come on, you don’t need to –” The bassist interrupted the singer with a plodding atonal rhythm from his bass. The drummer and guitarist soon followed, creating this droning, uncomfortable sound that made Dennison’s bones itch. Before the singer could chime in, the bassist grabbed the microphone and began to sing in a gravelly, harsh voice that belied his youthful appearance. “Gather now, you sons and daughters, lead your offspring to the slaughter, sacrifice for Old to come, come to save IA IA…” The last two words, words Dennison didn’t understand, came out as shrieks, like something caught in a bear trap. It made him shiver. “Join us, Grandfather, resting deeply, in your temple dreamless sleeping, wake and rule the world anew, anew for you IA IA…” The lights flickered and Dennison jumped. Definitely coincidence, but definitely unnerving. This he could sell to the studio. “That which dead will never die, pull the sunken stars from the sky, free us from the cruel humanity, humanity is yours IA IA…” The bass was thrumming now, cutting deep into the flesh of every listener in the room. Dennison’s nerves were firing. Fear. Love. Hate. Everything was writhing in his veins listening to this paean to something dark and wonderful. “Find us now, O Great Devourer, hear our cries upon this hour, come and join the endless honor, honor for you, O Great Cthulhu, honor for you IA IA IA IA IA IA IA IA IAIAIAIAIAIAIAIAIAIAIA… The bassist was no longer singing. He was chanting, howling, sobbing into the mic. The sound of feedback was deafening and Dennison could see the blood dripping from the man’s fingers as he pounded the bass strings. The sound of thunder from outside shook the building and then the world went black. A Bankrobber’s Nursery Rhyme
Build a goal and build a team Make a plan without a seam Find the people you can trust Turn your doubting into dust That’s the way the robbing goes. Early morning bank is quiet But downtown chaos from a riot Fortunately cops are busy Entire city in a tizzy That’s the way the robbing goes. Cover faces, don’t get caught Agree upon a meeting spot Black the cameras with spray paint Ignore the fact you’re not a saint That’s the way the robbing goes. Take the tellers and managers captive Keep them moving, keep them active Promise they will not be harmed Use every last ounce of charm That’s the way the robbing goes. Guide the manager to the vault Assure him this is not his fault Just bad luck on a bad day Listen to what he has to say That’s the way the robbing goes Let him open up the door Kneel him quietly on the floor Tell him he will not be hurt But cover his face up with his shirt That’s the way the robbing goes. Clear out cash and gold and jewels Glory in these silly fools Who trust a bank to hold their treasure Just for you to take with pleasure That’s the way the robbing goes. Then it happens, someone twitches Frightening those sons-of-bitches The ones you trusted to be calm Start to yell out with alarm That’s the way the robbing goes. Then a gunshot, then three others Mother, father, sister, brother An entire family killed Blood across the tile floor spilled That’s the way the robbing goes. No use now in staying silent All your crew is craving violence They unload all of their bullets Ruining the plan with bullshit That’s the way the robbing goes. Nineteen hostages slaughtered And you know you really ought to Get away from this disaster Leave and plan the next step after That’s the way the robbing goes. Arguing between your crew members Force you now to try to remember What was your contingency Plan to ensure that you stay free That’s the way the robbing goes. Sirens now approaching outside Riots only provide so much space to hide Gunfire tends to draw attention Away from the social media convention That’s the way the robbing goes. ‘Blaze of glory’, you start thinking As your freedom is slowly shrinking You won’t make it out alive There’s no chance that you survive That’s the way the robbing goes. In the end, you do what’s best Take your own gun, kill the rest The manager and your angry crew All no longer valuable to you That’s the way the robbing goes. The end is near now, doors are broken Angry commands are loudly spoken Horrified by all the slaughter As you think about your daughter That’s the way the robbing goes. Cops appear, you raise your pistol Hairs upon your neck, they bristle Put the barrel to your head Go to prison? No, you’re better off de- Upside Down and Inside Out
Howard came to consciousness slowly. The supernova that had gone off inside his head had taken him out for several minutes. That can’t be good, he thought groggily as he tried to look around. He had been tinkering with the alien minerals the last survey crew had brought in from the asteroid when everything went white and then black. If he had had his way, he wouldn’t have touched the damn things, but you don’t get hired on to a crew like this without expecting that credits override literally everything else. As the world faded back into view, Howard noticed that everything was out of place. The tables were wrong. The chairs were wrong. The beakers and tools and even lighting were wrong. Had there been an explosion? If there had been, wouldn’t he be ash right now? That didn’t line up. Why was everything so blurry? He tried to shake his head and couldn’t. Oh shit. Was he paralyzed? He couldn’t afford that. His family couldn’t afford that. They had told him as much before he joined the crew. He was to send 80% of his credits home to take care of the family because that’s what family does. His father had also told him that, if he became a burden to them, he may as well just put himself in the airlock and head out to space. Apparently, family loyalty only went so far. Reflexively, he tried to wipe his eyes to clear the blurriness from them. Maybe he had just slept for a while, right? When he tried to wipe them, he noticed two things. First, that trying to do so really, really hurt his eyes. Second, that his hands had scraped against his eyes. Scraped. That was definitely the feeling. It didn’t feel like fingernails, though. It was more like bone. Even in the blurriness, Howard tried to reorient himself. The room had been moved around enough that he could just – He froze. No, the room hadn’t been moved at all. Everything was in place. He had been moved. The tables and chairs and the like were still on the floor where they always were, but he was on the ceiling. That made no sense. He needed to find a way down. More pressing, though, was the steadily increasing rush of pain covering literally his entire body. It had started as a tickle, then an itch, and now it was starting to burn. At the same time, he saw an inhuman amount of red pouring from the ceiling and splattering on the ground. Poor bastard. Someone must have…oh no. Howard moved his hand in front of where his eyes had been. The hand was perfectly intact aside from the little twist of being entirely inside out. The scraping he had felt was from the bones of his hand. His eyes were blurry because they were covered with skin and flesh. That was his blood. He was alive – just inverted. That was when Howard began to scream. When My Ashes Turn White
You stare straight ahead, not allowing your face to show the strain inside you, as the crowd bays for your blood. The shackles on your wrists and ankles are cold and your rough clothes scratch your skin to red as you stumble along the beaten path. The guards to your sides hold your elbows to keep you from falling but only just enough. They could not care less how you die, just so long as you do. You are not innocent. Remove the excuses or justifications from your mind. What they have accused you of – things so vile as to not be repeated – you have done. The memories flicker in your mind and, in some way, provide comfort to you. You are what they say you are and you must accept that. You must accept your fate. Your innocence was never an option. You were caught in the act and brought to jail. From there, the process moved quickly. Others came forward. The stories piled up, one after the other, until the resultant tower could have crushed the courtroom. Your peers, once kind, stared at you with empty, horrified eyes. You were no longer their friend or neighbor. You were a beast. You are a beast. Your counsel proclaimed you were possessed by some demon, that your soul had been overtaken by a creature of the night. He urged you to spit and curse and behave as such. Your counsel made the jury’s choice easier. A quiet town such as this must not suffer the wicked and blasphemous. Your final request was that your counsel be met with the same fate as you. It was granted and he fainted. That was the only moment of joy you have experienced since. Ahead, the pyres wait. Your counsel has already been tied to the leftmost post. He is sobbing and his shirt is covered with the remains of his breakfast. He is crying out for mercy but none look at him. The rightmost pole is bound to the charred skeleton of whoever came before you. The middle pole – the place of pride – belongs to you. Your shackles are removed, and you are bound with thick, heavy rope to the pole. Your hands feel the sharp edges in the wood burnt into small knives by years of bonfires. The preacher gives you last rites, though you do not believe them. Where you go, peace of the soul will not exist for you. Your crimes and sentence are read aloud and the crowd boos and hisses and chants for your end. You look up at the sky. It is a cloudy day. No rain shall come, but neither will you be sent off with the kiss of the sun. The fire is lit beneath your feet and you clench your teeth to breaking. You will not scream. You will not give them the final satisfaction of your agony. You shall leave the world as you joined it – defiant and awaiting your true master below. Calling for Storms
Breathe, Poseidon. Neptune. Thor. Taranis. Enlil. Perun. Raijin. Whoever may hear, whoever may be out there, breathe upon us. See the corruption running deep to the bone in us and purge it. Understand that we have no hope left for good. Understand that the vile rot that is humanity cannot be saved. Cannot be recovered. Breathe, god or goddess of storms, and let your vengeance pour down upon us. If not us, if not everyone, if we as a people are not worthy of your hatred, then I humbly ask that you inflict it upon me and me alone. I have done so much worthy of being washed away. I have hurt so many. I am the one that attacks late at night in the alleys of the city, the one that uses knives and fists and hobnailed boots to damage and destroy. I steal from those who have nothing and feel no guilt. I hold them tight against the cobblestone and take what I wish from them. Their money, their trust, their virtue…whatever strikes my fancy, I have stolen, taken for myself and my own pleasure. I am the one holding poison in small bags and large bricks. I keep my trade silent, under the nose of those who would prevent me from plying my wares. I find the most vulnerable, the sad and the unwanted and the addicted, and I prey upon them. I whisper false promises soaked in honeyed words into their ears and sell them the filth that will end their lives. I am made rich by their weakness. I am the one who creates anger wherever I go. I am the grifter who exploits the fear and outrage of the average person. I make them terrified of everyone else and promise them that Everyone Else will not be a problem. I hold no views of my own. I do not care for the petty feelings of people. I am needed by one group and then by another, by one side and then the opposition, and I move among them as a phantom. I pour the fuel and light the kindling and disappear to engulf others. I am not for one or the other – I am for myself and I am that which matters. I am the one that uses the wondrous tools that the world provides and perverts them. I make creativity irrelevant and offer it freely as pablum to the un-curious and lazy. I take human connection and turn it to conflict through words nobody would expect. I create a world where the most disappointing human impulses exist with the push of a button. There is one more button to push and I hope I achieve doing just that soon. Breathe upon me, wash me away. Clear away my poison from the world and allow humanity to rebuild. Shower them with freedom and allow them to breathe. Remove my hate, my evil from the world, or I will not stop. I will never stop. Call the Ships to Port
There is never a good time to receive the ‘all ships return immediately’ order from Command. It’s always, at best, a pain in the ass inflicted by an overreaction from one of the paranoid weather-watchers. The worst time, however, is when you are on Day 15 of a 30-day patrol and, therefore, as far away from port as possible. You can imagine our annoyance, then, when we got the call just as we were rotating to begin our return journey. The radio crackled to life with the standard ‘Order 1516 – All ships return to home base immediately’ command. I was about to pick up the radio and respond back with something likely a tad unprofessional when the second order came through. “Addendum 77 – Do not stop for other ships, stranded vessels, or other distractions. This is an order.” That caught me off-guard. Normally, an ‘all return’ command came with the implicit understanding that public service was acceptable reason for detouring. If a boat was off course, we would usually correct them. If a fishing vessel ran out of fuel, we would either provide them enough to get home or temporarily add them to our crew while towing them to safety. Being told in no uncertain terms to completely ignore others – especially with them labeled as ‘distractions’ – gave me a chill in the lower part of my spine. “Ship 329, reporting,” I said into the radio, “Please clarify Addendum 77 order.” “Ship 329, no clarification is required. Return to home port ASAP and do not stop. Just fucking listen.” I nearly dropped the mic in shock. Something was definitely going on now. Any pretense of normality had been abandoned. Whatever the order’s reason, it was extremely serious. “Copy. Everything okay, Command?” “Return immediately. Avoid distractions. I can’t be clearer than that. God help you.” With that, the line went dead. The ball of panic in my throat threatened to choke me. Instead, I swallowed it and bellowed for my crew to get the ship turned around and headed back to port on the double. I communicated in no uncertain terms that the journey that normally took fifteen days should take half that at the slowest. I heard the grumbles and complaints, but they hadn’t heard the shiver in Command’s voice. It hadn’t been anger or frustration – it was fear. So, we went. We went as fast as we could. Following directions, we did not stop when the stranded cruiser hailed us and then burst into purple flames as we passed. We did not stop for the dozens of civilians floating and fighting off sharks. We did not stop when the screeching of the radio nearly made our ears bleed with its constant screaming. We almost made it. We’re a day away now. We’re all exhausted and hungry and want to rest. The ship is squealing from protest, but the order is clear: do not stop. The skyscraper-sized tentacle rising from the sea in front of us, though, may be a problem. But Not Tonight
When you decide to become a serial killer, you find out quickly what works for you and what doesn’t. There are no classes to take, no videos to watch. You can’t find a tutor unless you’re either extremely lucky or extremely unlucky. You are learning alone. Sure, you can watch documentaries online about those that came before. You can read about their mistakes, what got them caught. The problem is that you’re learning from flawed sources. They got caught. Something went wrong for them and their run is over. The best you can get from them is what not to do. So, what do you do? You improvise. You decide your motivation, your targets, and all of that based solely on yourself. Why are you doing it? Is it rage or hatred? If so, who are you angry with? Who do you hate? Is it yourself? Is it society? Is it your mom? If you do get caught, as is statistically more likely the longer your win streak goes, so to speak, who are you going to blame? You can’t blame yourself – that goes against every fiber of your being. And on and on. This analysis paralysis can stop you dead in your tracks, pardon the pun. 94% of all potential serial killers quit before their first kill due to logistical factors. That’s a fact. Above all, though – and this is something the quote-unquote experts won’t tell you – the most important factor to being a success is timing. Not just timing in terms of when to strike, but timing in terms of the amount of terror you want to extract. If you want to be one of those quick-strike, cut-and-run killers, that’s easy. Late night – around 4 AM – and preferably someone who is outside despite all logic and reason. Easy. On the other hand, if you prefer to take and torture someone, that changes the timeline significantly. Setting aside the difficulty of the catch and disposal afterwards, the main issue at hand is how long you keep your victim alive. Is it overnight? A week? A month? You had damn sure better not be falling in love because that screws the whole deal, believe me. What’s your end goal? Do you want to break them in short order or over a while? What level of cruelty are you working with, essentially? In my experience, the most effective plan is to go with the flow. You’ll know when the time is right. Let yourself be patient. Personally, it’s quite enjoyable to enter a room and see the spike of anxiety and fear from your captive about whether this is ‘it’. It very well could be, but you don’t know going in. The fun there comes from getting close, feeling their terror, and then whispering ‘not tonight’ or some variation thereof. You aren’t going to kill them, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t going to play around either. It can totally demoralize them. Above all: find what works for you. Happy hunting! |
Here is where I''ll post random stories that aren't, as of yet, in a larger book. Call it a free ride into the mouth of madness, yo.
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